The Admiral's Daughter by Julian Stockwin

pyramid of harsh dark grey particles, the early-morning light picking out in curious detail the little grains, smaller than any pepper-corn. “This is y’ new cylinder powder—throws a ball jus’ the same range wi’ a third less charge,” he said.
    â€œOr a third further if y’ charge is th’ same,” Kydd retorted, but his curiosity was piqued. It was seldom he came across the naked powder: guns were served with it sewn safely inside cartridges of serge or flannel to be rammed home out of sight, and priming powder had a different grain size.
    â€œAh, well, as t’ that, sir, ye must know that it’s an Admiralty order as we takes aboard twenty per centum fewer barrels.” A sceptical look appeared on the hovering boatswain’s face, which disappeared at Kydd’s sharp glance. “And, o’ course, ye’d be aware we gets less anyways, bein’ Channel duties only.”
    â€œAre ye sayin’, Mr Duckitt,” Kydd snapped, “that we must land the powder we now has aboard?”
    â€œNot all of it, sir. We keeps a mort o’ White LG for close-in work an’ salutin’. For th’ rest it’s all Red LG powder, best corned an’ glazed, charge a third y’r shot weight and a half f’r carronades, one fourth for double-shottin’. It’s all there in m’ orders jus’ received.”
    It would take time to discharge from their magazine, cramped into the after end of the hold. Then there was the swaying inboard of the lethal copper-banded barrels from the low red-flagged powder-barges, no doubt only now beginning their slow creep down from the magazines further upstream. “Very well. I’d have wished t’ know of this afore now,” Kydd growled.
    Purchet turned anxiously. “Shall I rouse out th’ larbowlines below now, sir?”
    â€œNo, no, Mr Purchet, th’ forenoon will do. Let ’em lie.” The thought of breakfast was cheering.
    As he turned to go below he saw Standish emerge on deck, ready dressed for the day against Kydd’s shirt and breeches.
    â€œSir—a very good morning to you!”
    â€œOh—er, thank ’ee.” He had asked that his new first lieutenant present himself in the morning. Clearly the man had taken him literally and was prepared for the morning watch, which started at four. “I had expected ye later. Has all y’ dunnage been brought aboard?”
    â€œIt has, sir—all stowed and put to rights. Cabin stores coming aboard this afternoon.” He glanced up into Teazer ’s bare masts. “If we’re to get to sea this age it were better I begin my duties directly,” he said briskly.
    Kydd paused. Was this an implied slight at Teazer ’s untidy state or the sign of a zealous officer? “It does ye credit, Mr Standish, but there’s time enough f’r that. Shall we take breakfast together at all?” he added firmly. There was no reason why he should be cheated of his own repast and it would give him proper sight of the man for the first time.
    â€œWhy, thank you, sir.” Standish seemed genuinely flattered and followed Kydd respectfully to the great cabin.
    â€œAnother f’r breakfast, Tysoe,” Kydd warned. His own meal was ready laid at one end of the polished table—wiggs, dainty breakfast pastries, and sweet jelly, quiddany of plums, in a plain jar, the coffee pot steaming gently. “Well, Mr Standish, the sun’s not yet over the foreyard but I’m t’ welcome ye into Teazer, I believe.”
    Tysoe brought napery and cutlery and set another place.
    â€œPleased indeed to be aboard, sir. You’ll understand that to be idle when your country stands in peril sits ill with me.” Standish was well built, his strong features darkly handsome, hair tied back neatly in a queue, like Kydd’s, but with a studied carelessness to the curly locks in front.
    Kydd helped